Avenging Angels
by 90TheGeneral09
Summary: Alternate version of "The Unknown Tribute". The Male Tribute from District 3 learns some hidden facts about his father and what he really thought of Panem's government. Aware his chances of winning the Games are slim, the Male Tribute from 3 decides to do something with the chance he has to take action with the nation watching.
1. Chapter 1- The Minesweeper

**Chapter I- The Minesweeper**

* * *

There's a good, solid chance that I'm already dead. That the last time I saw District Three was on the day of the Reaping, and that ever since then I've been living on borrowed time.

I've tried to be optimistic about my chances, ever since the Reaping. It's only been maybe two or three weeks, but it feels like another lifetime. You can't really know what that means, that phrase, unless you experience it. It's not even the prospect of dying, of facing life-threatening danger, that truly bothers me.

What does is the possibility of dying uselessly; that I might just go out to the games and get killed, never making a mark of my own or in any way going out on my own terms. I've never wanted to die as just another statistic, just another dead Tribute. Hopefully, if I do have to die, I can at least avoid a fate like that. Whatever happens once the games start, I have to try. It's what my father would have expected. It's what he'd want.

Some of the tributes had a pretty safe life before coming here; coming here to the Capitol. A couple of them, trained at special schools for years prior, volunteered at the Reaping instead of getting picked. Naturally nobody took my place. Why? Most everyone was too busy being thankful it wasn't them, and out of all my siblings, I was the only one currently in the age range from which Tributes were selected. None of my brothers could have taken my place, so whether any of them even wanted to doesn't make a difference. And with no family who even could volunteer in my place, my chances had pretty much run out. Everybody, even my oldest friends, was just glad it wasn't them.

The head Peacekeeper looked more sorry to see me go than just about anybody. He knew my dad back when they were in the same unit, patrolling the former warzones in the districts and searching for mines and other leftover dangers from the war- including any signs of a new rebellion in the making. Seems like some of the people in District 9 didn't appreciate their work, because old Farris said that the fifty-plus year old mine that got my dad had clearly been placed in the patrol's path. I didn't hate mines then, I don't know. But coming from the older half in a household of eight, I had to find something to do.

So I volunteered as a Youth Peacekeeper, an experimental program the Capitol has been working on the last few years. To take my mind off what happened to dad, and to help bring some money into the house, I threw myself into minesweeping duties. As early as nine I was scurrying between rocks, through ditches and across groves. Probing for all manner of booby-traps but most especially for mines. I came to love digging into the dirt with my fingers, delighting in the moment when my fingertips would touch the mine's cool steel shell. Grown men would keep their distance while I would calmly walk into entire fields of them, calmly digging up and disarming each one as if I was picking up harmless turtles or crayfish. But the only thing that bothered me all those years, about all those times I faced death so calmly and befriended the silent, deadly mine, was my obscurity. My name was on my file, on my signup papers, kept in some distant headquarters building in a Capitol I never dreamed I'd see. But they never called me by it, the Peacekeepers I worked with, risked my life with. I was "kid", then "the kid", then "The Minesweeper".

Apparently there was some game they played ages ago, before Panem. You'd try to sweep a minefield, and the guys in my patrol figured I'd have been really good at the game, much as I was good at the real thing. But at least Farris and his guys, they respected me. They appreciated the help I was to them, getting in and out of tight spaces they never could. But when my name was called at the Reaping, and I froze, experiencing real terror for the first time in my life, nobody immediately looked at me. They all sort of looked around them, hesitantly, as if searching all that hard for the one who'd been picked could mean them taking my place. I stood there, my mind gone blank, into complete and total denial. But everyone else kept looking around. None of them, not one, really knew my name.

Eventually the official up on the platform started getting irritated, seemingly wondering if their boy tribute hadn't escaped somehow this year. But then a heavy hand, tough as iron and as resilient as steel, clamped on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Farris, his face grim. And his eyes? For a moment, for just a moment, when they locked with mine, they looked heartbreakingly sad.

What was he thinking? I don't know for a fact, but I can guess. This is how the Capitol repays the faithful. It's not enough that a family gives up a father after years of faithful service. Now a son's got to go too. But the look passed- as head Peacekeeper, Farris couldn't show sympathy even if he did feel it. It might not have mattered much in my case- as one of the few Youth Peacekeepers who routinely came back alive and unharmed, I found myself the subject of quite a few hateful stares, as mothers, fathers, uncles and siblings all looked and no doubt said to themselves, "Now it's his turn. The Capitol's little Minesweeper, off to the Games. Let's see how lucky he is now." The damn Minesweeper. That's the only name I've got now.

So I walked up there, onto that platform that they only use for things like the Reaping. Shook hands with the girl they picked- I recognized her face from school, but that was all.

Looking down at the crowd, I saw some real sadness in the eyes of some people; just a few seemed to feel regret. But everybody else, including some of my oldest friends, were far too busy slowing down their racing hearts, being thankful that neither they nor anyone they loved had been chosen. It's only natural. I guess they can't be blamed.

A moment later, anger surges into me. The hell with it. Maybe they can.

I remember hearing in school that when the tributes for each district are chosen, they have maybe an hour to sit in solitude, in a room where the Peacekeepers stand guard outside and allow visitors a short time to say goodbye. I was surprised- and grateful- that my family came, my younger brothers all clustering around me and tearfully hugging the big brother they hope, pray, will not be going off to die. My mother looked at me briefly, and I looked back. Neither one of us could seem to find the words. She almost said something, then seemed to think better of it. The look in her eyes was odd; was she considering telling me something I'm not supposed to know? I remember that well. It was the first time I wondered if there weren't any secrets in our family.

But ultimately, my mother stooped down, hugging me tight to hide her emotions. She didn't want to say it, but I could tell. Being the wife of a career soldier, she has had to confront reality, however brutal it might be, every day for close to all of her life. For years, she had to face the fact that her husband just might go out on another patrol one day, and then simply never come back. With my service in the Youth Peacekeeper's, I ended up being another person she cared about but whose death she had to be ready for. On the day of the Reaping, I could see my mother still held hope. She still hoped, wanted very much to believe, that her son would come back alive; a victor.

But she had to face the very real possibility that I might not. Her husband, after all, fell despite his own best efforts. The odds are against me, and my mother and I both knew it that day. But when she hugged me, she just said, "Take care of yourself," in a voice strained with emotion. I hugged her back, unable to speak. Then she finally stood up, gently pushing me away. Then my mother took my younger brothers and walked out of the room, not giving herself the luxury of a backward look. I understood then and I understand now. She knows she'll be seeing my face on the TV soon, and that'll be bad enough.

I sat there alone for the next twenty minutes or so; the allotted hour was steadily ticking by. I wondered what my mother had considered saying, what she'd debated telling me. Briefly, I wonder about something else, too. That mine that killed my father… it definitely did seem odd that one mine would be on a stretch of dirt road like that, and that my father wouldn't have been alert enough to notice it.

I was just thinking about that when the door to the small room in the District Three mayor's building opens. Farris walked in, looking intently at me for a moment. Then he turned and made a show of closing the door casually; it was as if he had to remind himself not to hurriedly slam it.

Sitting on the small bed in the room- perhaps some tributes just lie there and make some effort to sleep if no one visits them- I stared at Farris, shocked. The Head Peacekeeper for District Three had come to make a personal visit. Something about this was very strange. But I know better than to speak unless spoken to; both my training as a Youth Peacekeeper and my own respect for my dad's old soldier buddy tell me to keep my mouth shut.

Farris is a strong-jawed, charismatic old soldier with dark brown hair, just beginning to give to iron gray. His dark brown eyes darted around strangely for a few moments; he was clearly debating something in his own mind, there in the silence of the room. Finally, he hurried over to me, kneeling so our eyes were level.

He spoke quietly, his voice gravely serious. "Your father had a saying, son. Do you remember it?"

I nodded; as a matter of fact, I do remember that saying. It's been the family motto, more or less, for the better part of a hundred years. Before even the Hunger Games began, as a matter of fact. I spoke it aloud, quietly: "True service goes beyond personal gain."

The Head Peacekeeper for my district, a man who knew my father nearly all his life, nodded solemnly. He seemed to want to say more, but perhaps realised he couldn't; there's a solid chance the room was bugged. This thought was quickly followed by another: What would this man be saying to me now if he could say anything he wanted?

Farris glanced at the door; I guess he had a feeling he couldn't take very long, or his men would become suspicious. Officers in the Peacekeepers, above all, are supposed to be far above personal attachments while in uniform. Head Peacekeepers don't usually visit a Tribute before he goes off to the games. But Farris took just a few moments more. He said, "Remember those words, son. Just remember what your father said. _True service goes _beyond_ personal gain_."

Then he pressed something into my hand; instantly I felt his rough, calloused hands meeting mine, and the feel of something cloth and metal. The softness of fabric, and cool metal attached to it.

Farris got up before I could say anything, striding swiftly from the room and shutting the door behind him. Bewildered at the whole thing, I glanced down at the object he'd put in my hand. It was my Keeper's Cross, the highest honour a member of the Youth Peacekeepers could be given for an act of bravery. Had I been a full adult Peacekeeper, I'd have been given the highest honour of all; the Star of Panem.

Why did my mother hesitate before saying goodbye? Why did Farris, veteran soldier and personal friend of my dad, hand me my medal and remind me of my family's motto?

I didn't have much time to think on it then. Before long my hour was up, and I was tossed a nicer set of clothes to put on. They want District Three's boy tribute looking good for when he boards the hovertrain out of town. Ten minutes later, wearing a set of formal clothes more expensive than anything my mother could have bought, I rejoin my female counterpart, getting in a car and heading off to the station.

And then we boarded the train. I must have been the first tribute they found crawling under it at the station, trying to figure out how the hover system worked. I know I was the first because normally, the Peacekeepers let you know you've messed up by showing how very unpleasant it is to be whacked with a stun stick. This time, though, as I was prying the casing off one of the train's hover 'wheels', they just stared at me for a minute. Then the blows came, and they hurt sure enough, but after I shouted "I only wanted to know how it works!" enough times, they left me alone. Then Betee found us, and proved surprisingly scary when angry. Waving his arms and gesturing furiously, he shouted at them, using such words as "insane brutes" in his tirade.

The Peacekeepers didn't like being yelled at by someone not clearly their boss, but even these Capitol guards understood what a new Tribute was going to mean to a past victor. They let me go without further incident, and one of them even lets me go up front for a while and talk to the engineer. Accompanied by Betee, I find the train's driver surprisingly polite and almost eager to answer my questions about the hovertrains the Capitol operates. But as I get ready to leave, I see why- for just a moment the engineer gazes at me as I leave the locomotive, and there's a terrible, unspeakably sad look in his eyes. I realize he's sure I'm going to be dead soon. Maybe he's right.


	2. Chapter 2- The Capitol's Training

**Chapter II- The Capitol's Training**

* * *

The first day of training, I put on my uniform- black, lined with gray and red and a gray number highlighting our district. Beetee keeps up his usual technobabble, but Wiresss says next to nothing, seeming content to leave the talking to Beetee. I only ask about land mines, water mines, wall mines. Mines, mines, mines. Trip wires, too, but Beetee's specialty is definitely electricity, and that only has so much relevance to my career with demolitions. I'm fifteen years old and better than men three times my age in the placing, arming, and disarming of mines. What more can Beetee tell me? He may know something about the mines used in the Arena, though, so I listen, and when Beetee takes the opportunity to seize some particularly good looking pieces of toast, I ask about that. It turns out he was able to tell me quite a lot. Mines have gotten very electronic in the last few years, and the mines placed around the pedestals the Tributes stand on are always state-of-the-art.

For half an hour the first morning, I work with one of the trainers, Orsaa, on making a fire. I catch on quickly, she says; I don't bother mentioning that so many days in the field with the Peacekeepers meant knowing how to do something as simple as lighting a fire. But I do get better at it with her help, so it isn't a waste of time. I leave that station before long, though, my eyes scanning the room.

Mines. Your foot puts pressure on the plate, telling the mine to get ready. Then your foot steps off, because if the demolitions man did his job, you won't know you've stepped on anything but dirt. And that's when the mine knows it's time to do what it was built for.

I know all that. It runs through my mind as naturally as oxygen through my lungs. But I see no explosives in the training room, no mines, real or dummy. But my eyes do catch on some dumbbells at the weight training area… the weights attached to the end have a similar shape, at least, to some old-model Capitol M48 mines. The trainer watches me, curious, as I step up and take hold of one of the weights, but instead of lifting it I simply work the attached plates off the end and walk away with them. Back at the fire-starting area, complete with its own patch of authentic dirt, I go prone and begin digging out the earth, crafting two holes just big enough to hide the 'mines' when I cover them up. Cato finds me there as I work. I see his shadow fall over me but pretend not to notice. "Playing with dirt? That won't be enough" he says; he's amused, unimpressed. "Not if you plan on living very long." I stop my covering up of the second 'mine' and look up at him. My brown eyes meet his cold gray ones. My voice, though quiet, is much more sure of itself than I expected. All I say is, "Oh, I can assure you, it will be enough."

I don't go on to say why; Beetee's told me about the mines, modern and electronic, right from our own District 3, that will keep all the Tributes on their platforms for the 60-second countdown. I don't tell Cato, not now, but once I dig all those up no one will be able to touch me. I can just lead my enemies into them and let the mines, those beautiful, beautiful mines, do all the work. Cato laughs. All he sees is the lean, quiet kid with the dark hair, playing in the dirt. But the mocking laughter doesn't touch his eyes. With the other Careers, with Marvel, it does. They see a kid with less muscle, less brute force, and to them that's all there is. But Cato isn't quite that dumb. If anything, he's at least got the smarts of a predator. And prey that doesn't act like prey should- helpless, scared- may not be as easy as it appears. I am scared, but after so many hours out in the minefields, fear and I are old friends. I get a hint of what's going on in Cato's mind: this one knows what he's doing.

The thunderous explosion of a double-deep rebel booby trap, two mines appearing to be just one, picking me up and hurling me thirty feet flashes through my mind. Cato's been training for this for years, in the best schools his district can offer. But I've been in the Peacekeepers, saving the lives of the men in the white armor for years. Letting so many dads go home, like some long-dead rebel kept my dad from doing. Anger pulses through me suddenly, and now Cato does look impressed. The look I now give him, in my eyes alone, sends Marvel back a step. Cato doesn't back away, but he tilts his head to the right a little. I've gone up a notch. "See you in the arena," he says, and he's gone.

The small girl from district 11 comes by a minute later. She doesn't so much walk up to me- I heard Cato as one would an elephant- as she just… appears. One moment she wasn't there, then she was, a small smile on her face and the light of a brilliant mind sparkling in her eyes. But she's not mean. Nothing about her says mean. So when she asks what I'm doing, I say one word and one word only. More than I told Cato, more than I'll tell anyone. "Mines."

The girl from 11 doesn't say anything, and interestingly she doesn't even seem worried. She looks at me, thinking, and then darts away and is gone again.

Throughout our three days of training I speak very little. I watch, I listen, I learn. I visit every training area there is, and practice 'mine deployment' in every kind of terrain they offer. The plot of fake trees, the tall grass- I must be prepared to use mines at any one. Short swords and daggers are attractive when I practice with them, but I'd rather not have anyone get that close to begin with. I focus instead on the spear.

I catch sight of the pair from District 12 from time to time- the girl looks tough, tougher than most. They have the reputation for that, sure enough- not flashy and with no money for the special academies of 1 and 2, but tough. And that will count more in the Games than good looks. The boy, on the other hand- I don't think he'll last long. All I'd have to do is get him running- towards or away from me, doesn't matter- and have a mine in his path. He'll never have the sense to think, to slow down and wonder if something's up. In just an instant he could lose a leg out there in the arena; down and screaming, he won't have to wait long for death if that's what happens. Or maybe he'll just set a foot on that pressure plate, lift it up again, and be gone before he even knows it. Mines are funny like that. Sure, you make the choice to plant and arm them. We bring them into the world to do nothing but destroy, and even though it's a fate they can never escape, it's the mines, in the end, that decide how they go out. And who goes with them.

Watching the boy from 12, I almost want to cry, I feel so bad for him. He's taller and stronger than me, sure. But he's nothing next to Cato, and I could turn _him_ into spaghetti given two mines and a pointed stick. The boy from 12 seems like a nice enough guy- seems- but the Games are cold and heartless. Nice guys die fast in such a place. They die or get mean. Like me.

Briefly, during maybe our third day of training, I find an empty Fizz-Pop can near the grass-and-tree mockup. Glancing down, I look at it curiously. There's something interesting about an object of about that shape, about that size… and again my mind goes back to mines. I recall minesweeper training with the Youth Peacekeepers, the instructor, Skaal, showing the group of boys a Capitol M48 mine. He stripped it down, taking it apart and showing us each component and how it worked. The truth about most mines- nearly all, in fact- is that the way you see one, complete and on a table or in a crate, is misleading. What you see on the outside is just a shell. There's a casing, built to protect the explosive charge and keep it safe from weather and the elements, so that the device can lie there for as much as a hundred years before going ahead and doing its job.

Looking down at the Fizz-Pop can, I pick it up, fascinated by how much its size and shape resembles the core, the explosive charge, of a Capitol M48 mine. Placed in the centre of the mine, the charge has a device on its top that is normally connected to the pressure plate. Once pressed down, the button on the charge cannot be let go again without it exploding.

I suddenly take the can and dart back inside the tall grass. Putting my thumb on the can's top as if holding the detonator down, I jam the can under my chin.

Maybe if my luck runs out and I realise it first, I can do this. Maybe I'll get my chance, and have a means with which to die my own way, on my own terms. I've been a nameless, average boy too much of my life already. I resolve, that third day of training, that I won't die the same way… if me dying is what ultimately has to happen. And between being impaled by Cato and blowing my own head and torso apart with an M48 charge, I think I know already which choice I would gladly make.

Still pretending the Fizz-Pop can is an M48 mine's explosive- if it was it would certainly weigh a few more pounds- I lift my thumb off the top of the can. Quietly, I speak one word.

"Bang."


	3. Chapter 3- A Soldier Reports

**Chapter III- Preparation; A Soldier Reports**

* * *

Betee is with me every day, it seems- Wiress mostly focuses on the girl from my district. I've never met her before the Reaping, and we speak little. I guess the knowledge that even if we both live, one of us will have to kill the other weighs on our minds. You don't want to risk getting attached to someone who not only will likely be dead soon, but may soon be dead because you killed them. But Betee, I note with increasing gratitude, is plenty interested in getting to know me, and tries his utmost to get me ready for the live interview with Caesar Flickerman. I may be cool and calm enough when left alone, and I'm cool as ice in a minefield… but I know nothing about impressing a career TV personality in front of the entire country.

My hands visibly shake as I put on the suit he obtained for me- it has a white coat and pants, with a black tie and gleaming black shoes. The cuffs are ringed with five bands of gold, and the breast pocket is emblazoned with the emblem of District 3. Betee chatters about the suit, and what it will mean to the public: "White is signature color of the Peacekeepers. You served, won three medals- a hero. Five members of your family fell in the Peacekeepers, three in the war and two since." So that's what the gold bands are for. I try to argue with Betee when he tells me to present myself as a hero, from a long line of heroes. This time Wiress steps in, snapping at me, "How many of these Tributes have what you do- an image of military service? You've been looking out for your family for years. You want to represent them well, and you've seen real danger while even the Careers have been going to school all these years. You've been given an image. Stop being so damn modest and just use it." I shut up. She's right.

When Caesar calls my name, my heart stops. My blood seems to freeze in my veins. But my feet snap to and I march smartly out onto the stage, using just the same measured step that my father's unit did during drill. I also made an alteration to the suit, a single change of my own- my three medals are lined up in a row on the left side, just above 3's symbol. My idea for its message was simple- glory to District 3. The crowd's roar is deafening- what exactly makes these Capitol people so wild for a bunch of kids who they know are gonna die soon is beyond me. But then I remember Wiress and Betee telling me about a time long, long ago, when crowds in a far-off land would cheer for people they knew would soon be eaten by lions. The thought is not encouraging, and I try to banish it from my mind. But it won't go.

Caesar waves me over, though, like a proud uncle welcoming his nephew in for a visit. Eventually Caesar quiets the crowd, and looks over from the armchair next to mine. I glance behind me briefly, and see myself on one of the monitors. The two discs and one cross hanging from the colored pattern of ribbons gleam like mirrors. I have to admit, Betee did his job pretty well. I look good. Caesar's voice brings me back, though. "Checking for the enemy?" he says, and I look back at him, surprised. Seeing he has my attention, Caesar goes on, "There's no rebels here." The crowd laughs, and I say, a little more sharply than I meant to, "How did you know about that?" But Caesar isn't bothered a bit. He just says with a slight smile, "Youth Peacekeepers' service records are kept in the Capitol, after all." The crowd laughs. "And with that in mind, I know what you got your medals for. So you don't have to say anything about that if you don't want to. But I think our viewers," he looks out at the crowd, "are all very curious." The crowd's enthusiastic chatter says he's right.

So Caesar goes on, "So I'll ask you one." I nod, doing my best to appear calm and confident. I wonder if I'm succeeding. "When you were clearing that hill in District 4, and the mine you set off turned out to be a double charge… how did it feel?" I stare at Caesar, at a loss for words. How did it feel? I was picked up and thrown thirty feet like a rag doll! Had my sprint away been a little slower, had the charge gone off few seconds quicker, they'd have had to search for my remains. That is, search with gloves and a couple of black trash bags. How was I supposed to tell anyone here in the Capitol, people who had never risked a thing in their lives, what that was like?

Perhaps Caesar senses this. He's a smart man; never misses a thing, not on this show. So he changes his approach, his tone becoming apologetic. "I know that must be such a difficult question." I nod again, and I hear myself say, "Some things you just can't describe. You have to see them yourself." The audience agrees, yes, they do. Caesar tries again, "What I mean to say is, how can you best describe it? What made you go up that hill at all? Is it true you volunteered?" I answer, "I volunteered for the Youth Peacekeepers, and I took point every time we swept for traps. Demolitions was my specialty." Caesar nods thoughtfully, and looks at me to go on.

I feel like there's a greasy lump in my throat, and tears threaten to fight their way out. I clear my throat and say three sentences I'll always know I meant, even if all the rest were bullshit.

"It was like it always was out there; peace or war, demolitions has a job to do. I just wanted to come home alive. I wanted to get the mine that got my dad."

At this I must appear visibly moved, for the crowd murmurs in sympathy and Caesar sets a hand on my arm, the very picture of sympathy. "I think we are all very moved- indeed, I daresay all of Panem is moved- by the sacrifices families like yours in 3 make, sending so many loved ones to the ranks of the Peacekeepers, protecting all of us." Again, the crowd murmurs assent. Caesar says, "If your father could have been there when you won your Keeper's Cross, how do you think he'd have felt?"

I hold my head high and say, "He'd have been proud of me. And he would be now, too."

There are some things you just can't fake; knowing your father would take pride in you is one of them. My father was a soldier, just like Farris; he knew the risks. And he would have respected me for being willing to face them. I promise myself at that moment, sitting in that armchair before a live audience and cameras broadcasting to all Panem, that I will face whatever comes in the Games with courage. I won't curl up and cry; I won't hide and feel sorry for myself. If I've got to go at all, I'm going with a fight- just the way a Peacekeeper would.

Caesar nods again, appearing impressed at my sudden display of confidence. He asks, "Now, you come from a long line of Peacekeepers, and three of your family died fighting for the Capitol in the war. But no one from your family has fought in the games before. This leads us to my last question. How do you feel about going into the games? Do you have a particular plan, or talent?"

I answer right away, appearing much more confident than I feel. But that's good- I don't want to die like the boy from 12 is all but set to do. The Careers are going to eat him alive. I look at Caesar and answer as confidently as I can- and I do surprisingly well. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve, things they teach us in District 3 and in the Peacekeepers." Then I smile nastily. "If those Careers think they can win by charging all over the arena like beasts, I'll win for sure, Caesar. One wrong step…" The audience talks excitedly; some of them have caught the meaning of my words. Caesar has too, from the expression on his face. Maybe he's also heard of the mines that surround the circular platforms the Tributes stand on, and put two and two together.

His last words to me are also to the audience, "Then we'll all expect some surprises from you in the arena, I think. Ladies and gentlemen, the Boy Peacekeeper, the winner of the Keeper's Cross!"

As I rise to my feet and bow to the audience, the cheering erupts once more. Feeling less nervous than I did going out- against almost certain death, I guess stage fright really is trivial- I stride offstage, medals clinking faintly against my chest. As I come back down the stairs and pass the line of Tributes still waiting to go, I briefly lock eyes with the girl from 12, who looks quite stunning in that red dress her stylist got her. She looks scared out of her wits. But for a moment, just a moment, I feel like I am seeing past her fear and into that inner toughness that lies beneath. And in that moment, a stern, incontrovertible voice tells me: forget Cato. She's the one to watch.

I'm still unimpressed by the boy, though, aimlessly fumbling with some button on his black suit with its red trimmings. Unless I've been missing something- something he's doing a damn good job of hiding- the boy from District 12 is dead meat. No, I'll just be watching the girl. In fact, if it comes down to a fight between her and Cato… I think most of the Tributes- and really, most of Panem- haven't noticed yet, but the more I think about it the more certain I am. She doesn't look like she plans on losing. The difference between her and Cato is that Cato _thinks_ he's sure. The girl from 12 _knows_ it.

Me and the girl from my district exchange brief wishes of good fortune to one another after we return to District 3's assigned penthouse. I pretty much say I hope her death is a quick one, and she echoes the sentiment. Both of us hope to survive, certainly, but I can tell from looking her in the eyes that she knows- and I know- that our chances, in the end, aren't much. I sincerely wish her the best, though. I hope she makes it.

It's funny, you know; the girl and I are both aware we're probably already dead for all it matters. We know that in the fast-paced, brutal and utterly pitiless Hunger Games, the Catos and Cloves will thin the rest of us out in a hurry. The tough ones, like District 12's mountaineers, won't go down easy. But us, the techno-experts from District 3? We're no good in a fistfight. We're not exactly the best with swords or cutlasses, or axes or any of those wonderful things that the Capitol's elite finds it so entertaining to watch us kill each other with. We're technicians, intelligence specialists, engineers. Not sword-fighters.

But we're smart; you have to be to produce the kind of things District 3 is known for. No other district can do what we do. From cutting-edge military hardware to the wide-screen televisions the Capitol's elite love so much, we make it all in the world of electronics. District 3 are Panem's IT specialists. What that translates to in the games? A low survival rate, like most of the districts. But our knowledge of electronics and the fact that we make the landmines that surround each of the pedestals the tributes enter the arena on gives us a chance. But only the most innovative- and quick- from 3 have ever come out the winners. If we try to fight the games the way the academy-trained volunteers from 1 and 2 do, we get killed pretty fast.

So I can't be like Cato. I can't even try to fight the Games like him. I'll have no chance that way, and it's not how I'd want to go.

That last thought leads me to something else, as I sit there on the guard rail- and force field- lined patio that extends out from my room, long after the sun's gone down. I'm sitting alone, arms wrapped around my knees as I stare off over the glittering skyline of the nighttime Capitol. Sitting alone, and thinking.

Part of the purpose of these games must surely be the mere fact that they get a group of children together every year, all of us from different parts of the same country, toss us together in a selected arena and let the whole country watch us kill each other. Maybe the idea is sending a message: see what your kids will do to one another if given the chance? If you can't even trust them not to turn on each other, how can you trust your neighbors at home? Maybe half the point of the games, half at least, is just sowing fear and distrust among the Districts. Keeping them from ever getting any ideas, getting organized. If everybody fears and distrusts everybody else almost as much as they fear the government, small chance of any organized rebellions happening.

I realise, sitting alone on the patio that night and trying to slowly calm my racing heart, that back home they must think we're all like that. Somehow, the Capitol must be very determined to show us all that it's never gonna change. The tributes fight, and most of them die. Every year nothing's ever different. Even when they have literally nothing left to lose, the children don't utter a whisper of defiance, or commit the slightest act of dissent.

Suddenly I hear my father speaking, shaking his head with disgust some years ago as we watched that year's Hunger Games on TV. Wasn't our family's choice- every household has to, and the Capitol makes sure we all have at least a basic TV for just that reason.

My father, just back from a weekend of drill at the barracks, was shaking his head as he watched even the ordinary kids, the ones from our district and the others that had no special training academies or any volunteers for the Games, fighting and killing each other. Looking at the screen, watching as these boys and girls shot each other with arrows, hacked away with axes and swords, or towards the end just went at it with their bare hands, you couldn't tell which faces were the vicious Careers and which weren't. They were all kids, and they were all killing each other. Nothing ever changed, and that was just what the Capitol wanted.

My father shook his head in dismay. I could tell this didn't sit right with him, but he didn't take his eyes away from the screen. But glancing up from the floor next to his armchair, I could see something oddly determined in his face that day. It was like my father was committing what he saw to memory, reminding himself of… what?

I didn't know then, and I'm still not sure now. But I do remember, very clearly, as my father said in a hard but quiet voice, "Someone has to show the world we weren't all like him. Otherwise Snow will always own this country."

I looked up at my father curiously, staring. Why was he talking like that, and mentioning President Snow? I started to ask what he meant, but my mother came into the room just then, shooing me and my brothers out. They didn't really catch what my father had said; they'd been playing a game on the rug, already confident they didn't want to watch what was on the TV. The law said they had to be in the room, but nobody was watching to make sure we all looked at the TV while it was on.

I picked up on little things my father said and did after that; he talked of his buddies and his EOD work in the Peacekeepers with enthusiasm, but not of other things. If I ever heard a rumor of a protest or some kind of dissent that the Peacekeepers were being sent to deal with, my father would avoid the subject, seeming to look as if he'd eaten something that disagreed with him.

I remember one day I got home from school early, not long before that last patrol my father went on. Farris had come by, since I came in the back door they didn't know I was there. As I made my way upstairs, quickly realizing I needed to be quiet about it, I heard them arguing. My father was saying "it" was the only way, that _somebody_ had to do _something_. Farris, keeping his voice low and urgent, was saying "it's not time for that", and reminded my father of what he'd be risking.

My father then got real quiet; I could tell, even without seeing his face, that his face was solemn. He could get like that sometimes, my father. What he believed in, he believed in very deeply.

And I remember my father saying that same line, that remark he'd made while watching the 69th Hunger Games on the television. He said to Farris, very quietly and with a calm I doubt anybody would have expected:

"We have to show the world that not all of us were like him."

"Even with what it could cost?" Farris asked, and my father just said, "Yes, even so."

Then that mine had killed him, barely a month later. I never really connected the two events before; I'm starting to wonder now.

Maybe my father had been planning something. Against the Capitol? Possibly. That would be treason, and my family has been loyal to the capitol for decades upon decades. I always trusted my father. Always liked him. As I'm thinking alone, the last night before the start of the 74th Hunger Games, I am sure my father had a reason. He must have had a good reason to do what he did. And if he thought treason was necessary… maybe those rebels had a point. My father never really talked like he hated rebels, anyway; he was just very devoted to keeping law and order, and retrieving all the mines still lying around active, relics of the last war.

But I guess someone must have figured out my father was more than a simple soldier; I always knew he was different from the rest of the men in white, so many of them really the blindly loyal men the posters make them out to be. My father was never like that. And maybe somebody figured it out, and made sure a 'rebel mine' was just a little better-hidden than Peacekeeper EOD patrols were used to…

I shake my head; where are all these thoughts, these speculations, coming from? I don't know. But they have a strange certainty to them; they won't quite go away. I sit on the patio for some time, thinking of my father, and Farris… and what both of them seemed to believe about my family's motto: _True Service Goes Beyond Personal Gain_.

By the time I go inside, I am very tired. I don't know what time it is, and I don't care. But I have surprisingly little difficulty going to sleep after a time. I'm thankful for that at least. As I slowly drift off, lying in a bed many times better than any I ever slept in at home, I realise… my mind is already made up. I may make it out, I may not. But I'm going to go into this with everything I have. Cato and his sword be damned, and the same with the District 12 boy and his stupid flour bags! I was almost killed disarming mines their dumb ancestors helped put in the ground in the first place. If I'm going, I'm not going out of this without taking somebody down with me. Any Tribute that plans on killing me… they'd better be ready to earn it.


	4. Chapter 4- A Day in Battle

**Chapter IV- A Day in Battle**

* * *

Now I'm in the arena, standing right at the center of the circular platform, my heart thudding as the countdown timer goes through that 60 seconds. I look left, then right, scanning the faces- and stances- of my opponents. When someone realizes they're in a minefield, they usually do one of two things. Panic, and run blindly to an all but certain death, or keep their heads, try to find a way out. As I look around me I realize the arena isn't so different from that. I continue looking about me, eying the gear, weapons, and packs scattered around the mouth of the big, steel, horn-shaped Cornucopia.

My heart hammers away in my chest, and my body is humming with adrenaline as I tense myself for the run.

20, 19, 18… I look down, around me. The sensors can't be seen, but they're there. One step off the platform, one second early, and the sensors alert the mines- I can see them circling me, little bumps in the ground the others won't even notice- and blow me to bits so small the animals won't find them. My fate would be left to the ants.

11, 10, 9… now my heart threatens to explode in my chest. The voice of fear, the voice of panic, is not so quiet now. I realize I've been lying to myself all this time. There's a very, very good chance I'm not ready for this at all.

3, 2, 1… time to find out. The horn blows, and the bloodbath starts. I sprint like a boy possessed across the grassy field and straight towards the backpacks scattered around the Cornucopia's entrance.

Which one do I take? Which one has life-saving gear and which one's full of rubbish? Impossible to tell right now. I snatch the one on the left, grab a spear and bayonet- I recognize it from the Peacekeeper's service rifles- and turn to run. I see the boy from 8 cut down before my eyes- Cato already has a sword, and has just made good on his promise to District 8's male tribute. One swift slash- the spray of blood is stunningly bright in the midday sun. The girl from 2, Clove, already has throwing knives- she chucks one at the girl from 12 as she runs, making for the treeline. I quickly decide not to take my chances running back out the way I came. I hear my dad's voice, stern and calm as it always was: "Deception is only dishonorable off the battlefield, in personal affairs. If you can't fight, and you can't get away right now, try something else. You're only cornered if you let yourself be cornered."

So I run to the side of the Cornucopia, and make a run from there. I take no time to pause, just sprint out across the grass, my mind screaming now in blind panic- they'll see you, they'll kill you, you'll get a knife in your back- but my legs keep going, and so I stay alive. Every second counts like an hour, and while I learn later that the bloodbath at the Cornucopia lasted not even two minutes, it killed off nearly half the Tributes. My female counterpart never had a chance. I saw her take a knife in the back- Clove's throws were faster than hummingbirds in flight. But as I run for the treeline, I'm not thinking about any of that. All I can think of is get away and stay alive.

I've just broken through into the trees, starting to think I've reached some measure of safety, I'm still throwing frantic glances back over my shoulder- the Careers have taken control of the Cornucopia, to the surprise of none- when I crash into something and fall, my spear, backpack, and bayonet going down with me. In a second I realize it's the boy from District 4; he apparently decided to get out as well. Despite being counted as one of the Careers, evidently he didn't figure his chances for an alliance with them amounted to much. I notice right away he has no weapon in hand- we each dropped ours when we so gracelessly smacked into each other.

He leaps for my spear- I leap for my knife. The two of us crash together again, struggling fiercely hand-to-hand. I'm stronger than he is, though, despite the both of us being barely stronger than Rue in a fight with Cato. I feint left and close in hard on his right when he falls for it, sending an uppercut into his jaw and kicking him hard in the chest. He goes down, hard, with a grunt of distinct pain. Before he can get up, before he can even try to get away, I suddenly am seized with an aggressive spirit I never even knew I had. With a yell- no words, just an inarticulate scream of aggression- I didn't even know I could make, I snatch up the bayonet, pin him down with one arm, and raise the other high and plunge the blade down into the boy's chest.

His eyes go wide; a sharp, pained cry escapes his throat. Then he burps, and blood spills down his chin. I keep him pinned while the knife does its work. In just a few seconds, the boy from District 4 dies. Panting, I suddenly want to scream. Out of rage, panic, triumph? Perhaps all of them. I don't know. But the cannon booms, again and again, as the din of battle subsides in the clearing and the number of casualties becomes known. Even though we all heard about the deathtrap the Cornucopia is beforehand, the reality of it is shocking. Almost half of us are already dead. Even as I think it the idea becomes ludicrous. Us? Who am I kidding? There is only me. I'm alone.

In the seconds that follow the cannon's final boom, I return to my senses, become aware again of the world around me, in time to hear the Careers talking. My blood freezes when I hear them coming this way. Seems like they kept better track of escaping combatants than I expected. Play dead. I have to play dead. The boy from District 4 left a healthy supply of blood behind. His chest is pooled with it, as a matter of fact. There's little time- in fact, there's none at all. I don't try to run- nothing attracts the human eye faster than sudden movement. I can't fight them- alone one of the Careers is dangerous. Together four of them, for me at least, are unbeatable. So I take a good-sized rock, dip it in the boy from District 4's blood, and smack myself in the forehead with it. I then collapse to the ground, face down, not two feet from the other boy. The rock falls to the ground between us. Footsteps. I slow my breathing as much as possible, to the point of it being unnoticeable unless one is up close. My hope is the Careers won't bother to check for a pulse.

The footsteps stop just a few feet away. Above me, voices. Clove's cold laugh; "Ha! The two little guys killed each other." Marvel's laugh joins her. "Maybe." But Cato is the one in charge. This I know the instant he speaks. "Hold on. I want to check something." A shoe prods against my ribs. Then it goes under my stomach, and I'm rolled over on my back. I freeze. Even the slightest rise or fall of my chest could be noticeable now. When I'm rolled over, I go like a rag doll, and my eyes, wide and staring, are as glazed with death as I can make them. I hope it's enough. Cato leans down above me, a long sword in his hand. I notice there is blood on it.

He says, "Well, well. Playing with your stupid dirt wasn't enough after all, was it, Three?"

Clove speaks now. "Cato, he's dead. Let's stop wasting time with this." Cato looks at me again, a flicker of- doubt?- crossing his eyes. But in the end he buys my act; Cato turns and walks back into the clearing, followed by the other Careers. As he leaves, I hear Clove ask, "What about that gear they had? And the weapons?" Cato's voice is so casual I can almost see him shrug. "So what? We've got all the gear we need. Those two aren't going anywhere."

It takes surprisingly little time for the Careers to leave; about an hour of looking around satisfies them they do indeed have all they need. They then make the sound strategic decision of leaving the entire thing undefended, heading off into the woods so as to "not miss out on the fun" in Cato's words. After another half hour of continuing to play dead, I decide they really have left. I get up and grab my backpack, the spear, and the bag the boy from District 4 had with him. I get a little sick when I look at him- his pale, freckled face is not looking any better. I head into the clearing, spear in hand- I leave the knife in District 4's chest. Once out in the clearing, I head for the Cornucopia's entrance, and spend a few minutes looking around. Soon, I'm heading back into the open, grassy field, a collapsible shovel in one hand and a smile on my face. I hear birds singing nearby, the sun is shining down on my face, and I'm about to dig up and 'repurpose' some of the Capitol's landmines- an act that will at last make me valuable to the Careers, and buy me time. Time which could very well save my life. After an hour of steady work, half the mines are dug up and the holes refilled as neatly as I can do it. After another hour they're all replanted and rearmed; about twelve in all. The rest I keep disarmed, hidden in a hole I dug then filled in just behind the narrow end of the Cornocupia's structure.

I then plant six in front of the entrance to the Cornucopia; the Careers moved everything that was scattered about inside, and there is no side entrance. With the six mines reactivated just ahead of me, I sit down at the Cornucopia's entrance and take my Keeper's Cross out of my pocket. It's the bronze cross hanging from the crimson and white ribbon that I always like looking at- the cross is made from metal mined in my district. As I look at the cross, I turn it over and smile a little- the Chief Peacekeeper, at least, bothered to have my name stamped on the reverse side, along with the date on which the act of heroism occurred. I find myself surprisingly calm as I wait for the Careers to come back, as I inevitably know they will. After all, there's no reason to worry. Cato won't have any choice, really, once he gets back. He'll work with me… if dying of hunger isn't part of his plan. Dying of hunger in the Hunger Games, and at the hands of the skinniest kid soldier in the arena, no less. The irony of the situation Cato will be facing when he returns makes me laugh a little. It's gonna take all three of his brain cells to figure this one out. Maybe if he borrows all of Marvel's he'll have four.

Later in the afternoon I go over to one of the many now-empty pedestals and dig up a few more mines. This time, though, I take them inside the Cornucopia and strip out their explosive charges, tossing the empty shells in a corner of the steel, horn-shaped structure. I realise that if I could somehow rig these charges' pressure detonators with something that would press the button down and release it on impact, I'd essentially have hand grenades.

I can't find anything that would be a safe guarantee for that, though; out of all the bags and crates nothing I find quite seems to fit. I shrug after a while, putting the currently-harmless charges into one small crate, careful to lay them where the apples I place on top won't have any chance of setting them off. Even so, I make sure to set that crate off to the side. Don't want to take any chances of that one getting tossed around and sending anyone close by to find out if Heaven is for real.

Once the sun has gone down, I withdraw inside the Cornucopia for the night; odds are, the Careers will be having too much fun, and everyone else will be too afraid- or too dead- to come back here until tomorrow. The night is cooler than I expected; the light jacket I managed to get isn't entirely enough. And I can't go lighting a fire; no way. Anyone sees that, they'd know somebody had gotten back here and was settling in. So I spent the night inside the Cornucopia, safe in the knowledge that anyone foolish enough to try making their way back here in the dark will die before they know it- and that the sound of the explosion will wake me up in time to deal with any friends they brought with them.

A boom reverberates through the woods and clearing late at night, long after dark has fallen- I sit up, throwing off the blanket I managed to dig out of one of the crates. I grab my spear and check the bayonet at my belt, going prone and crawling quickly outside. I look around in a panic. What happened? Who bought it? There's no thrown up dirt, no one-legged Tribute down and screaming- or pieces raining down of what's left. Nothing.

Then I realise. Thinking about it, I notice the explosion of a mine, especially this close, would have shaken a person's _soul_, nevermind their body and nerves. I wouldn't have just heard it if one had one off- I'd have _felt_ it.

No. As the adrenaline rush of the moment dies down, I head back inside the shelter, grimly aware of the truth.

Somebody else bought it today. Some sad, luckless soul lost everything out there in the woods, in the dark. Briefly, I wonder who it was. I wonder if he- or she- died alone. Odds are they did, or at least their friend was smarter, otherwise there'd have been two booms of the cannon. The thoughts run through my mind again- who made it today? Who didn't? Who was the latest to join the fallen for the 74th Hunger Games? But before long, my questions are answered.

I come outside one more time that night at the sound of the Panem anthem- I doubt anybody sees me, and I'm not even in uniform, but my feet instinctively snap to attention, my whole form straightening on its own. The seal of the Capitol appears, and below it, hovering in the sky, large white-gray letters: THE FALLEN. I look and watch, feeling nothing in particular as my eyes review the ranks of the dead.

The girl from Three- her death saddens me somewhat, but comes as no surprise. It wasn't likely either of us was going to make it through Day One- the fact that even one of us did is an achievement. It bothers me, when I go to sleep a little while later, that the girl from my own district is easy to picture dead. I can't remember her voice, anything about her besides her face- I can't even recall her name.

The boy from Four- my heart skips a beat. He's not dead by the hand of some random Tribute I never saw or knew. He didn't fall off a cliff or die in a rockslide. No- this boy, the one most like me in build and demeanor, is dead for only one reason: I killed him. But this is war- in war even people we have nothing against must die. He'd have killed me if I hadn't killed him; that's just how it is. Pushing his face aside as the roll goes on, I figure I'll still have no problems getting to sleep tonight. And I'm nearly right, too. Almost.

The boy from 5 is gone, too. I never really knew or spoke to him; he was yet another foolish Tribute who threw away his chance at life by spending too much time in the bloodbath, too close to the Careers. He could have done better than this.

The girl from District 5 soon joins her partner. They're both gone, then. Then comes the girl from 7, the boy from 8, the girl from 9- the list ends with her, a total of thirteen gone in the first day if my count was right. Another of my questions is answered as the Capitol seal flickers and vanishes into the dark, along with the face of the girl from 9. She was the last to go today, and instantly I can guess her fate. Suddenly, I'm sure enough it's startling. I know she died out there in the woods, afraid and alone. Small and inconsequential in a hand-to-hand fight, she had no ability- like service in the PK's and years of experience handling land mines- to make up for her small size. And from what I saw of her in the training rooms, she had no idea what she was doing. None. As I lie back down on my makeshift bed, I find myself picturing what likely happened to her.

She was probably lighting a fire- the very thing they told us not to do. Not out of a daredevil flaunting of the trainers' advice, but because… what else was there to do? She was probably cold, alone- and very, very afraid. Miles from home and surrounded by people ready, even eager, to kill her, she probably lit a fire just to have something to keep her warm against so much cold. That mistake cost her everything.

As I drop off into a sleep brought on not by a lack of conscience- my dad told me once you never forget the face of the first person you kill, and I have no delusions about that- but by sheer exhaustion, I tell myself one thing. One phrase, over and over in my mind, until I'm even hearing it in my sleep.

I picture the face of the girl from District 9, the boy from District 4, and say to myself:

I will not be like them. I will not _die_ like them.


	5. Chapter 5- A Better Plan

**Chapter V- A Better Plan**

* * *

I wake up sometime before dawn- my dad would always wake me up around then after I turned twelve, telling me dawn was when the Frogs and Natives would attack. Was it Frogs? I can't remember. Some country, far away. And the expression is centuries old anyway. Neither of them probably exist anymore; a fate I don't want to share.

Stepping outside, I pull on some gray field pants the Peacekeeper's helpfully packed in one of the crates. Between that and the green-gray field jacket, I'm reasonably warm, not weighed down by any of it, and have no bright clothing to send off visual signals. I smile a little as I check the mined perimeter while the sun comes up, and then grin when I take out my Keeper's Cross and look at it, gazing down at the sun glinting off the royal purple fabric and the gold metal of the cross. The Boy Peacekeeper, Caesar called me, now owns the Cornucopia.

Yep. I'm doing okay.

A shout half an hour later, while I'm chowing down on a small bag of reddish-blue berries for breakfast. My head snaps up; my hands throw down the bag and I leap for my spear, throwing myself flat on the wet grass to scan their approach. I know the voice immediately, know for certain who's come back. It figures; I'd expected this. It's Cato, and naturally he's not alone.

As they come closer, I see the Careers arguing with each other. Cato is telling them see, I told you he wasn't dead, and Clove is snapping back oh, sure, you thought he was just as dead as the rest of us! And so on and so forth. I become a little bored with their bickering, so as they close within ten feet of the mines encircling the Cornucopia, I shout to them, "Maybe you should shut up!"

It works. They all stop, looking startled. Cato proves again he's at least not the dumbest by recovering from his surprise faster. Working a sly smile onto his face, he calls, "Still playing in the dirt, Three?"

"Or do you miss your _friend_?"

That's Clove. From the cold, taunting sound of her voice, she probably killed the girl from my district, too.

I choose to ignore Clove and speak only to Cato. He's the boss, anyway- the other three Careers; Marvel, Clove, Glimmer- they'll all do whatever he tells them to do.

"I'd stay _right there_, Cato- unless you don't like one of your legs too much!"

Murmurs, quiet, furious arguments between them. They're trying to figure out what I mean. Finally, Cato seems to give up and says, "What's up, Three? Got some mines out there for us?"

Briefly, I'm startled. I hadn't expected Cato to be so quick on the uptake. But I was right- he may lack brains sometimes, but he's a brilliant predator, and hawks know a thing or two about sensing traps set by sparrows.

The Careers close the distance just as much as they dare; even Clove's eyes widen in fear when she notices the small lumps in the ground ahead of her. The grass is tall enough, though, that not all of them can be spotted from where they are. Cato, still looking both amused and surprised to find me still alive, changes his approach. "How about making a deal?" he calls.

I decide there's little point in trying to hide- they more or less know where I am anyway. I stand up, clutching the spear with one hand. I say, "What kind of a deal?"

Cato grins a little. Now he's getting somewhere. "A _deal_, deal! You guard our shit with your mines, we don't off you. Simple as that."

Behind Cato's smile is a look of predatory cunning. He knows- and I know- that such an arrangement will only last as long as it benefits one of us. Even if all five of us- am I really already thinking that- make it to the end, even if we're the only ones left, every one of us knows that when we reach that point, the alliance will fail. We'll turn on each other. And me, the soldier-boy with the landmines? I'll be the first to go. If only because now I've shown the Careers up. I've challenged them as an equal. And their super-competitive, win-win-win spirit must hate that.

Finally I respond, "Get in file behind Cato. Walk four feet straight, four feet left, four feet right, in a Z. That'll get you up to me." Because, you know, that's just what I want. To be closer to Cato.

It takes the Careers a few minutes to figure it out, and I get ready to dive in a hurry at a few moments, expecting one of them to bugger it up. But they don't, and Cato towers over me when he gets there. He's smiling again, though. For whatever it's worth- I'm thinking not much- Cato's got some respect for me now. I've impressed him. And I've proved I can be useful.

The Careers set to work gathering supplies for the day- I quickly notice they only take enough for one day at a time. Those idiots! What are they _thinking_? What happens if they get cut off from the clearing; what if they have to spend two days out there in the wilderness, or three? Have they even _considered_ that?

This display of arrogance, this failure of logic, soon pales in comparison to the next. Guided again through the mines, Cato directs the Careers to relocate nearly every crate, backpack, and piece of food or gear to an open space in the field, about thirty or forty feet away from the Cornucopia's entrance. Then he tells me to relocate the mines.

I try to argue. Pointing at the places Cato has told me he wants the mines, I say, "They're too close! Any one of them goes off, we'll lose all the gear!"

Glimmer just laughs; the kid from 3 is getting afraid again. But I insist. "With this spacing, any one of them goes off, it'll set off the rest!"

Cato won't listen, though. He gets up in my face, real close, halfway to shouting. "Listen," he says, "With all the gear in one spot, mines all around real close together, and YOU"- he jabs me in the chest with a finger- "standing watch, nothing's _gonna_ go wrong. And if any of the mines _do_ go off, there won't be enough of you left to find."

Finally I give up. Hell with it. If that's what the brilliant leader of the Careers wants, fine. Part of me hopes something _does_ go wrong… so Cato and his friends, deprived of their entire food supply, get to live out every agonizing day of hunger, wishing they'd learned from their mistake before they made it.

The first day they head out, though, the Careers apparently decide to stay overnight, out there somewhere in the woods. Early the next morning, though, something apparently goes right- or wrong- for them. The cannon booms in the distance. When Cato comes back, he has only Marvel and Clove still with him. Their faces are grim, and their hands and faces are scarred from Tracker-Jacker stings. I know- the Capitol gives Peacekeepers a little training in dealing with their stings, in case any loyal fighters of Panem should be injured by one of the Capitol's most vicious weapons.

The remaining Careers spend several hours applying lotions and medicines to their wounds. Little is said between them. I don't ask what happened to Glimmer, and part of me doesn't want to know.

Soon enough, though, the Careers head out again, and life in the arena becomes- of all things- boring.

My expectation that few, if any, would dare return to the Cornucopia while the Careers controlled it was right- occasionally I see something in the woods, hear something in the trees, but most of the time it's a bird or animal, and in any case they never come close. Each day Cato and his friends return for more food. Each day I give them what they need, then stand watch until nightfall. My doubts about Cato's logic never go away, though, so I choose to hide some food and supplies in the far end of the Cornucopia's interior. Way in the back of the shelter with little else inside but empty crates, the food I steal is never noticed. Three days pass; now and then I hear shouts, the crashing of leaves or trees in the distance. Once I see a huge column of smoke, too wide to be a campfire. It's accompanied by the sound of falling trees, and goes on for about ten or fifteen minutes. Forest fire, I figure. Probably started by the Game-makers.

I continue my watch over the supplies; for right now, showing the Careers good faith matters. It won't be enough forever, though, so I keep hiding food here and there. Gradually, I'm getting ready to bug out. And when I do, I decide to re-plant every one of the mines, and use the ones around the stack of supplies to blow it up. Let Cato see _that_ when he comes back.

About four or five days in, Cato and his buddies decide to spend the night at the clearing. We take some materials and gear and build a makeshift set of tents about twenty feet from the supply pile, also digging out and placing stones around a fire-pit. The morning of what I estimate to be Day Five, we're all sitting around the campfire, eating whatever got rationed out to pass for breakfast that morning. That part of this arrangement surprises me- as the resident 'smart kid', I seem to get handed every task that requires real logic or thinking, unless of course Cato decides it's his job to make a decision, prove he's in charge. I'm the one that digs food out of the crates every morning and decides how much to use for breakfast that day. Their naiveté in assuming I will always work things out for them is laughable- if I slipped some Nightlock berries in with their blueberries, they'd all die together and never know. I start getting an idea for tomorrow morning- if I can just go out and find some Nightlock today- when Cato gets up, pointing excitedly in the distance.


	6. Chapter 6- Taking Action

**Chapter VI- Taking Action**

* * *

I get up with the others, realizing the Nightlock will have to wait. "Look guys!" Cato says excitedly. "Look!" He gloats for a moment, certain he's got another unwary tribute to kill soon. I can imagine what he's picturing quite easily; some helpless girl or boy, maybe one effective enough at hunting to catch some game and try to cook it. Cato's sure that's what's out there. He doesn't have any doubt.

The smoke rising from the forest, a small column of it getting a little bigger as the fire catches, has to mean that someone is out there. If the game-makers start a fire _themselves_, it's never a little one. And one glance tells me Cato is sure the person will be there when he gets out there.

Me? I think it's possible. But there's also the chance somebody _else_ knows smoke means fire, too. And that they're counting on Cato to react the way he will.

But while Cato and the other Careers are talking, debating hurriedly over what to do, I go over by the supply pile, reaching inside one small crate. There's a few heavy, can-shaped objects at the bottom. Different shape, and different mechanisms on top than the older M48, but they're mine charges all the same. I wasn't too sure what I was thinking when I emptied out a couple of the disarmed mines and placed their still-live charges in this crate while the Careers were away. But I suddenly have an idea. Maybe it'll work, maybe it won't. But if it _does_… it _will_ make a difference.

I hear footsteps behind me; hurriedly, I shift the pile of apples in the crate so they cover the charges, taking a few out and placing them in my pack… along with the charge, which I take care to place upright and secure, with no chance of an apple hitting its pressure button.

I zip the backpack up and stand, turning to face Cato. He looks down at me intently, a little curious. I hold up the crate. "Apples," I say.

"Nevermind that," he says, already forgetting his curiosity. "We're gonna go hunt for whoever that is lit that fire. You stand watch till we get back!" Cato is already moving away, but I grab my spear and check again to make sure the Capitol-issue bayonet is secure at my belt. He looks at me curiously, and I put on an eager look, smiling a little in anticipation. "I wanna get one, too," I say, and Clove laughs. "He's turning vicious on us," she says.

Cato thinks for a moment, but finally shrugs. "Nobody's gonna come near the clearing anyway," he says. "Not with _us_ owning it."

And so I set off into the woods with Cato and the other two Careers left, noticing as we pass the end of the clearing that I am fully entering the arena's forest for the first time since the start of the games.

I dart around bushes and over fallen logs, doing surprisingly well in keeping up with the Career pack. After a few moments, Cato says, "When we find her, I kill her in my own way, and nobody interferes."

"Who's that?" I ask, uncertain of which kill is to be reserved for Cato. Marvel says contemptuously, "That girl from Twelve. She's marked after what she did to us."

Suddenly I realise where Glimmer's demise must have come from, who must have been responsible. I wish I could shake the girl from 12's hand; these Careers are for now my allies, but they are _not_ my friends. I'd be a fool if I even began to forget the difference.

As we close in on the site of the fire, following the rising column of smoke, the Careers and I can see there's quite a large stack of wood burning; this fire was evidently meant to be big, and to go on for a while. The brush was also cleared from around it; my suspicion that someone had planned this occurs again.

Cato directs Marvel and Clove to split off; they head to our left and right, Marvel intending to search the woods in one direction while Clove will circle back around the other way. They both head off, leaving me and Cato to watch the pile of wood and brush burning in the man-made clearing.

"She's around here," he says. "I know it."

Frustrated, Cato walks around the clearing, watching the fire and at one point stomping his foot in frustration. I drop to one knee, my heart racing as I unsling my backpack. I set my hand on the charge just as a thunderous roar goes up in the distance. The explosion's force shakes the ground even this far away; something very big just got blown up. Or something small, but by a lot of mines. Both Cato and I whip our heads back to the clearing, but I realise right away he's going to go back. And in that same instant, I realise what's probably happened, what Cato is going to do once he sees…

Someone, I don't really know who, has destroyed the supply pile. It was a chain-detonation of the mines I replanted; it couldn't have been anything else. Cato will be furious once he sees. He'll kill me, plain and simple. Even though I advised _against_ planting the mines that close together, Cato won't care. I'm the guy who knows how to arm and disarm the mines; I'm the minesweeper. Therefore, anything that goes wrong with them is _my_ fault, and not his. What wonderful logic; they must teach a whole new kind of it at those special training academies in the first two Districts.

I don't know a thing about these woods. I'm used to surviving outdoors with a unit, not alone. And if I run now, Cato will go after me without a second thought. I run through the possibilities, my options and the chances of each; none are especially good.

I pick up the charge as Cato starts to run back towards the clearing, pointing deeper into the woods. "Cato!" I shout, "I see her! It's _her_, she's coming back!"

Instantly Cato stops and turns, rushing back towards me. His eyes eagerly probe the woods. "Where?" he asks, but I rush over to some bushes and hide, motioning for him to join me. "She's not alone," I hiss. "I think Thresh might be with her."

I don't know how I managed to recall the name of the dark-skinned, hulking boy from District 11, but his name clearly registers with Cato. His eyes widen a little, and it's obvious he feels at least a little fear. I glance at him again; maybe more than a little. And he's not alone; I feel a sensible, healthy amount of fear at the thought of Thresh myself.

But there is a difference; Thresh, while big and a capable fighter, also is from the same district as that nice little girl, the one who seems to dart around so quick she's all but invisible. They're nice folks in 11; tough, but overall a nice lot. I'm fifteen years old, skinny and not at all physically imposing. I have a lot of experience from school, even in my district, at telling the difference between guys like Thresh and Cato. They're both big guys who could kill me in a hand-to-hand fight. Not only that, but easily. The difference? Thresh fights because he has to; Cato fights because he want to. Thresh isn't a bully, and Cato is. That's it.

_I don't like bullies_. The thought pulses through my mind, startling me with the sudden rush of anger I feel. But I understand why I feel it.

Cato hurries over to join me, doing his best to conceal his large athlete's frame in with my slim one in the bushes. "What happened back there?" Cato whispers, looking back towards the Cornucopia.

"Oh, somebody hit a pack of mines, that's all. I set a grid of six near the supply pile- chain explosion will kill anyone that steps on one of the mines, and others might think the supply pile blew up."

"Did it?" Cato says, not completely following me. I suppress a smirk and just say, "No."

Then I press my thumb down on the several-pound charge in my hand. I have no idea why I'm doing this; I'm absolutely ending any chance I might have had of getting out of here. But then I realise something that is surprisingly calming.

I never was going to make it out of here. Even if I'd survived to be one of the last two or three, the Capitol is known for being very creative with bringing its final tributes back together for a 'finale'. I saw some truly horrible finales growing up. I don't want to face that.

What I _do_ want is to get my wish. To at least go out in a way where I'll be worth talking about. Where my life and death won't just be a name and dates on a roll, another statistic. Not just another dead boy, killed in another damn game.

Cato sits as I scan the woods; suddenly, I spot a camera in one of the nearby trees. Small, almost imperceptible, but I see it. It's there, all right, and surely watching us now.

There isn't much time left. Cato's getting itchy, and it's going to be pretty obvious soon that I've lied. Even he will eventually notice no movement, no sound of footsteps. I look up at the camera; for a moment the rest of the world falls away, and even Cato beside me has become insignificant. It's like he doesn't exist.

Staring straight into the camera's tiny lens, feeling a strange comfort in knowing the device was almost certainly made in my district, I say with a strange calm, "We have to show the world… that not all of us were like you."

"What?" Cato is staring at me now, startled. He clearly senses something is up. Then, far off in the distance towards where Marvel had headed, a panicked scream. "Katniss! Katniss!"

Katniss? Or was it _Katnip_? Maybe _that's_ the name of the girl from 12. I realise suddenly she's done surprisingly well so far. With equal suddenness, I realise I wish her the best. For some reason, I hope she makes it. Maybe she'll be the one to do what my father wanted. But I like to think, were he here to watch me, he'd say I did my part too. That I, too, stepped up and showed that not all of the tributes were bloodthirsty killers. Because the people of Panem need to see that, have irrefutable proof of it for once. I don't understand much of this, but I understand it's something Panem needs to see.

Cato starts to get up, but I just stand up with him. In that same calm, detached voice, I speak one more time as I grip his arm, holding him back with surprising strength as he tries to start off towards the noise.

I hold up the charge between us; Cato's eyes go wide when he sees it. He's no demolitions expert, but even Cato is smart enough to recognize I'm not holding a gray, five-pound Fizz-Pop can.

But it's too late for Cato, and too late for me. There's no time, no chance to get away. But that's fine, because I don't want to. I'm not going anywhere because there is nowhere to go.

Then I speak. I feel almost calm, almost at peace, for a boy holding a land mine charge up next to his and another tribute's heads.

"True service goes _beyond_ personal gain."

I'm doing this for the girl from 12, the Girl on Fire as Caesar Flickerman called her. Something about her says she's different. If she wins, I have a feeling things won't ever be the same again.

And I have a feeling that's just what this country needs.

In the second it takes for me to lift my thumb off the mine's pressure detonator, Cato yells in fear and breaks away. He's trying to get away, trying to get clear, but he'll never make it. I'm too fast this time, even for him. And in that one second, I realize something. As I lift my thumb off the detonator, it occurs to me: for the first time in many, many days, the boy from District Three, whose parents named him Noah, is happy.

Then comes the explosion. For just one instant, I feel the heat, feel the blast of sound and force. It's a roar louder than any train; even if I survived this I could never hear a single thing again. But there is no survival. Not against something like this. I hear just the first instant of the all-consuming, apocalyptic BANG and the fire it unleashes is so beautiful, just _so_ beautiful, and then there's nothing but bl-


End file.
